


on the taste of home (let it go down easy)

by puddingcatbeans



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: 5+1 Things, Andrew Minyard-centric, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Fluff and Angst, Food, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 09:42:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20289397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puddingcatbeans/pseuds/puddingcatbeans
Summary: a lot of things in andrew's life has been tough to chew and even harder to swallow. a look into some foods andrew has tasted from past to present.or, five things andrew's eaten that doesn't quite taste like home, and one time it does.





	on the taste of home (let it go down easy)

**Author's Note:**

> they said to write about what makes you happy and food makes me happy so here i am writing about food. there's a lot of space for exploration and characterisation within food headcanons for these kids, i think. 
> 
> _warnings_: nothing explicit, i don't think, but the part i starts with smol andrew so implied child neglect/abuse from foster parents; part ii is set during his stay in the spears' house so mentions of cass and drake.

**i. ice cream + peanut powder**

Andrew’s throat hurts. Actually, all of him kind of hurts. He’s pretty sure he’s sick. Sick for a while, and according to that book he read while waiting to be picked up from the library the other day, fevers probably shouldn’t go on this long.

But what does he know. He’s just a kid. It's better to keep quiet because sick kids are a bother. And bothers are sent away without a glance back. 

He's hungry. The adults are out of the house and the others are glued to the tv. Andrew would be watching, too, because tv time is rare and he's learned quick to savour the good things before they're taken away, but the fever makes his head hurt. He's already seen this episode, anyway, which means the fun is all out. The other kids never appreciated his reciting of every line before the characters say them.

Andrew swallows again. His throat feels like it's on fire. 

"Hey," Carly says. At thirteen, she's the oldest of all the foster kids here. Andrew thinks she's kind of annoying with her insistence on spreading the chores evenly and trying to include everybody in a conversation. "I'm hungry. Who wants ice cream for dinner?"

Predictably, everyone says yes. Andrew watches them all follow Carly like little ducklings. He stays curled up in the armchair. He may be smaller than the rest but he knows the rules. Keep your hands to yourself. The kitchen is off limits. He's only been in this house for two weeks but he can be good. Good enough they don't send him away.

Carly pokes her head back in some time later. "Andrew," she says. "Don't you want ice cream?"

His stomach rumbles. He can't bring himself to shake his head. 

"It's okay," Carly says. "If we get in trouble, I'll say it was my idea, okay?"

Andrew frowns. Stubbornly, he stays in the living room by himself for a few more minutes. Eventually, he follows the rest of the kids into the kitchen.

Carly plops a bowl in front of him. It's just a small scoop of vanilla, but to Andrew it's the best thing he's ever seen. 

"Want to add some?" One of the other kids hold out a plastic container. What looks like light brown powder sits inside. "It's good, I promise."

Andrew frowns at the container. He shrugs. It's not every day that people offer him things without expecting too much in return.

The brown powder goes on top of the ice cream. Someone hands him a spoon. Andrew tunes out everyone's conversation and digs in.

It's sweet. The powder creates a sort of friction over the smoothness of the ice cream. It goes down easy.

Until it does not.

Andrew doesn't realize he can't breathe until he's halfway done the bowl. The spoon slips out of his grasp, hitting the table and falling to the floor. He flinches. He just made a mess, and messes are Bad. He has to clean up before anyone notices, but he can't breathe, his throat hurts even more, his tongue suddenly feels too big and useless and his vision is starting to black out, someone is screaming—

(Later, at the hospital, Andrew is told that he had just experienced a severe allergic reaction. He’s allergic to peanuts, and he had a very, very high fever. He very nearly could have died. Carly was distraught, the adults were upset, the kids were terrified. Andrew curled up as small as he could and wished he could sleep forever.

He was sent away to another house two days later.)

**ii. thanksgiving** ** turkey**

Turkey is ranked excessively low on Andrew’s list of foods he enjoyed eating. 

He’s never been a picky eater, what with being raised on uncertain menus and often forgotten meals. Thanksgiving turkey is something he’s only ever had twice before. The first time because the foster family he was staying with was putting on airs for visiting relatives; it was the first meal he had that day because the foster parents were out all day and forgot about the kids waiting up for them, and by that time Andrew’s stomach had cramped with hunger pains and he could barely taste the turkey at all. The second time was store-bought turkey meat because the orphanage he was sent back to at the time felt bad for the leftover kids, except they bought the cheapest kind that was on sale because it was past the best before date and Andrew spent the next day puking up turkey bits. 

He didn’t really think much about Thanksgiving until Cass asked him to go shopping for ingredients with her. She had this recipe for turkey stuffing that was passed down through her family, and one of her cousins had sent them their homemade cranberry sauce. 

“I tell Irene that she ought to sell it every year,” Cass says. “She’d make a fortune with it, I swear, it’s that good.”

“I’ve never tried cranberry sauce,” Andrew finds himself admitting.

"Well, then, you'll have to try some this weekend!" Cass smiles at him. Andrew can't help but smile back.

He spends all week pretending he isn't excited for Thanksgiving dinner. The night before, he helps Cass in the kitchen. They prepare the turkey and the rest of the dishes. He hides a pleased smile into his shoulder when Cass praises the bowl of potatoes he’d mashed. Kitchens have always felt like enemy territory to him, but at this moment, he's never felt more at home.

The next morning, Drake arrives. 

He sits across the table from Andrew and smiles wide. The tentative feeling of home drains away in the sink like the scraps of leftovers. The turkey sticks to the back of Andrew's throat. The cranberry sauce he'd been looking forwards to taste like dirt after it rained. 

"Have some more, Andrew," Cass says. 

Andrew forces himself to look away from her smile. He tucks his feet under his chair, out of reach. He keeps his head down, and swallows.

(Years later, Andrew is still convinced that Thanksgiving meals are cursed. He opts to spend the day huddled in bed, safely in his nest of blankets, Neil always within reach or a text away. No one bothers him. He sleeps.

The day after, he’ll take a long hot shower and put on the softest sweater he owns. One of Neil’s, probably, judging by its bagginess and boring gray colouring. Then he’ll climb into the car, Neil in the passenger seat, and they’ll drive over to Abby’s. It’ll be loud, rambunctious with a bunch of overgrown children masquerading as functioning adults and exy players. But no one will spare a second glance at him if he chooses to spend the evening curled up next to Neil. His plate will be filled with everything but mashed potatoes and turkey, and at some point someone will slide the entire tin of pie in front of him, and if that should be his post-Thanksgiving dinner, no one comments a word.

He’ll lick the whipped cream off his spoon, quiet and unafraid.)

**iii. nicky’s homemade enchiladas**

Living under Nicky’s roof is the strangest thing Andrew’s ever experienced. He knows Nicky isn’t a foster parent—he’s barely older than Andrew himself, and sometimes even more of a disaster than Andrew himself. But the house is under Nicky’s name, the food and clothing and expenses are provided by Nicky. That means it’s Nicky’s roof. And, from Andrew’s experience, every roof has its rules.

But Nicky doesn’t act like any other guardian that Andrew has had. He takes the twins shopping and tells Andrew that three shirts and a pair of jeans is not enough of a wardrobe. He gives them allowances for emergencies and for anything else they should fancy, even though Andrew has caught him tugging at his hair in frustration as he calculates the bills and accounts. He asks them what they like to do in their free time, he offers to help them with their homework, he asks them what they like to eat. He never once yells at them.

Andrew thinks Nicky is stupid. He’s too soft on them, and he tries too hard to be their friend. Andrew doesn’t know about Aaron, but he doesn’t need friends. He doesn’t need anyone. He has Aaron to take care of, and now Nicky, too, because he doesn’t trust his cousin to take care of himself properly when he’s bending over backwards trying to take care of two ungrateful brats like them.

The thing about Nicky, though, is that he’s a quick learner. He’s pushy about the little things that Andrew doesn’t have the patience for: showing up to school on time, eating breakfast every day, a growing teenager needs at least eight hours of sleep, you guys! But he keeps his distance when Andrew is in a mood, he prepares extra snacks when Aaron comes stomping down the steps. He knocks on closed doors and he fills the silence at the dinner table without pointing out the gaping wound between Andrew and Aaron.

Nicky is not the best cook. He's marginally better in the kitchen than the twins, who can only make scrambled eggs and instant ramen. Between juggling two jobs and keeping up with the housework so they can all function, Nicky doesn't have much time to cook. More often than not they heat up premade food or order takeout. To the twins, unwanted children in forgotten houses, it's not much different from what they were raised on. To Nicky, it's a sign of failure.

Andrew comes home one day to the smell of something sizzling on the stove. The radio is on, playing some top forty trash. Nicky's voice is soft as he sings along. 

"What are you making?" 

Nicky looks up from shredding cheese. "Andrew! Welcome back," he says. Andrew ignores the twinge in his chest every time Nicky greets him with the correct name. Since he became a Minyard, very few people have made the effort to tell the twins apart. "How do you feel about enchiladas for dinner?"

Andrew leans forwards to swipe some cheese. "Since when do you have free time?"

Nicky laughs. "I thought I'd treat you guys. I mean. I know neither of you like to celebrate your birthdays—and we didn't! I don't have enough to buy you guys presents anyway—Anyway! It's also a treat for me. This is one of the few recipes I managed to learn from my mama. My father isn't really big on me being in the kitchen, you know, but. I think food is for everyone, you know?"

Andrew watches his cousin move through the kitchen. He's still babbling nervously, but his shoulders are loose, his movements almost graceful. He's standing there in his bare feet and an oversized shirt that he must have stolen from his boyfriend. The sight fills Andrew with something almost warm.

He pushes away from the counter. "Aaron can't eat spice," he says.

"Hey, don't act like you don't have white boy tongue, too!"

(The enchiladas were still too spicy. But they polish the plates off clean, leaving no leftovers. 

Andrew turns his head and pretends he doesn't see the brightness of Nicky's smile.)

**iv. bee’s hot cocoa**

Every shrink’s office is the same: drab white walls, uniform desk, shelves filled with books or fake plants or countless files. Practically the same family photo framed on the neat little desk. The same uncomfortable couch. The same boring carpet.

Betsy Dobson’s office is not much different. The only thing worth noting was that her shelves were filled with rows and rows of glass figurines and tiny clay statues. Each one was perfectly spaced apart, dust-free. Andrew studies them and lets his flighty mind make nonsensical rhymes about them. He ignores her eyes on him for the first three sessions. 

“I have to confess,” Dobson says, “that I have quite a sweet tooth.” She makes her way over to the side table by the door. “Would you like to share a cup of cocoa with me, Andrew?”

He looks at the small electric kettle and the packets of hot chocolate mix. He shrugs. Dobson smiles. She hums quietly as she prepares two mugs of hot chocolate, complete with tiny marshmallows and whipped cream she kept in the mini fridge under the table. The mugs are mismatched and plastered with tacky animals.

They finish the drink in a silence broken only by Andrew’s restless feet and helpless giggles. 

At Andrew’s next session, she offers hot chocolate again. Andrew accepts his mug without a word. He traces the cartoon shape of a bee on the side of his mug.

“Your collection,” he says, halfway through the drink. Dobson looks at him, waiting, never pushing. “Do you dust it every day?”

His therapist smiles, and when she answers, Andrew is listening.

(Sometimes when insomnia strikes or when the nightmares come knocking, Andrew finds himself in the kitchen waiting for the hot water to boil. He keeps a well-stocked pack of instant hot chocolate mix in the back of the cupboard that everyone knows not to touch. 

On the worst nights, he calls Bee, and when he closes his eyes and takes a sip, he can almost imagine he’s sitting across from her in that big green sofa. When he starts talking, she doesn’t interrupt, but he knows she is listening.)

**v. aaron’s chicken noodle soup**

Being sick is disgusting and awful and so terribly and dreadfully  _ boring. _

Andrew blows his nose hard and lobs the used tissue towards the overflowing trash can. It bounces off the mountain of used tissues and lands sadly on the floor. Andrew glares at it. 

A muffled clatter from outside reaches his ears. Andrew rolls over to scowl at the closed bedroom door. The other beds are empty. Neil's phone, for once, is gone from where it's usually thrown onto the dresser. The window is open. His sheets feel sticky against his skin. The silence of the room is stale.

With a heavy sigh that breaks into a cough, Andrew drags himself out of bed. He tugs on a hoodie someone left on the empty bunk—judging by how it swallows Andrew completely, it must be Kevin's. The sleeves are a little too long, but it's warm. He leaves his armbands where they sit on the dresser.

The living room is empty. There's the sound of something boiling in the kitchen. Something thuds on the floor. A quiet curse follows. 

Andrew steps around the corner. There's a hazardous pile of empty pots and pans on the counter. Aaron is standing by the stove, stirring something in a pot and frowning at his phone. He's muttering under his breath.

"Who let you destroy our kitchen?" Andrew croaks.

Aaron jumps. Andrew watches in amusement as he nearly drops his phone into the pot. "Jesus Christ, are you a goddamn cat," Aaron says. "Make a sound when you walk, holy fuck."

"Language," Andrew replies.

Aaron scowls at him. "You look like crap. Go back to bed. I'll bring you the soup when I'm done."

"You can't cook."

"Shut up. Chicken noodle soup isn't rocket science. You need to eat something and takeout isn't an option. Unless you want Nicky to coddle you, you’re stuck with me."

Andrew cocks his head. He ignores the dizziness that came with the movement. "Who let you in, again?"

Aaron sighs. "Your stupid boyfriend did. Why are you so stubborn. I could just leave you here to suffer."

"Then do it."

They both know he won't. Neither of them acknowledge the fact anyway.

"Where is Neil?"

“Babysitting Kevin. He said he’ll bring back ice cream if you rest properly.”

“I’m not a child.”

“You sure about that?”

They glare at each other across the kitchen. Andrew can feel snot threatening to come out of his nose again. Aaron’s hair is sticking up all over the place, as if he had just woken up, too. He’s wearing his glasses and they could not look more different and more alike. 

Andrew turns his back on his brother. “Don’t put carrots in there,” he says over his shoulder.

“It’s an instant mix,” Aaron calls back. “I don’t get a say in what’s in there!”

(Andrew wakes up much later, full of soup and sleep, to Neil bustling about in the bedroom. When Neil notices his eyes are open, he whispers, “Feeling better?”

Andrew sniffles at him. He yawns wide. It’s still quiet in the room, dark now that the sun has set. He can hear the low murmurs of Kevin and Aaron in the living room. It’s familiar, the low hum of activity beyond the closed door. He’s still wrapped up in Kevin’s hoodie. 

Eyes slipping closed again, he mumbles, “You owe me ice cream.”

The last thing he hears before he drifts off again is the huff of Neil’s laughter.)

**\+ i. neil and pizza on the kitchen floor**

The apartment is small, because rent in this city is ridiculous. Seventh floor, not too high, but high enough to overlook the streets below and their home stadium in the distance. One bedroom plus a small den, with a spacious enough living room to host the barnacles that Neil calls friends and Andrew calls annoying acquaintances. There’s a cafe down the street that sells ridiculously sweet cinnamon rolls and knows Andrew’s latte order by heart. And they have roof access to this building, which is really the most important thing.

Matt and Allison were unfortunately in the vicinity when they moved in. Kevin would have been there, too, but there was a last minute change to his busy schedule. They spent the better part of the afternoon playing tetris with boxes and suitcases. Neil has long since stopped freaking about needing more than one duffle bag to store his belongings. They’ve both been travelling frequently between states and across the country the last few years because of the stupid sport they play, but moving into this apartment together felt like a long-awaited exhale.

Andrew had sat on the window sill going through his lollipops—quitting smoking was simultaneously the best and worst thing he’s ever done—while Boyd and Reynolds fussed over Neil in their new place. Most of the furniture is supposed to arrive tomorrow, but they’ve moved all their clothes and personal things into the rooms. It’s just the two of them now. The windows are open, the sound of traffic slipping through. 

“Pizza’s here,” Neil announces. He comes into view from the front hallway, carrying two boxes. “Where should we eat?”

Andrew hops down from the counter. “We don’t have chairs yet.”

Neil hums. He sets the boxes on the island. Pepperoni and cheese because Neil placed the order and he has the boringest taste in things. The only good thing about Neil’s broken taste buds is that he never fails to pick a fight with Kevin about the nerd’s questionable pizza topping choices.

“Hey,” Neil says. He grins at Andrew, eyes bright with mischievousness and soft with something else Andrew doesn’t want to put a name to it. At least not in daylight, not out loud. “Let’s eat on the floor. This is our place so we can make up the rules, right?”

_ Our place. _

“You’re a menace,” Andrew says back.

They sit on the kitchen tiles across from each other. Andrew’s back is against the oven, Neil’s is sitting against the island drawers. Their knees are pressed together. The pizza boxes are on the floor next to them. They don’t bother digging out the plates, just ripped the cardboard into pieces. 

It smells like cheese, grease, and a little of that lingering new-space stink. They need to go shopping for groceries at some point. Practice starts in three days. They should definitely organize their closet and set up the gaming system or else they’ll never get around to doing it.

But Neil is talking about exy-something-or-other. There’s a glob of tomato sauce on his chin. He’s wearing one of Andrew’s jerseys, and he looks tired from the day’s activities. He looks content and comfortable and at home. 

He looks like home.

Neil catches him staring. He trails off, holding Andrew’s gaze. Andrew doesn’t look away. A slow smile spreads across Neil’s face. He pushes aside the empty pizza box and wipes his hand on a paper towel. 

“Andrew,” he says, crossing the space between them easily. “Yes or no?”

Andrew tilts his head to meet him halfway.

_ “Yes.” _

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> me: i'm so tired of cliches in fic  
also me, writing: _and they looked at each other and called each other home_  
me, sobbing: aND thEy LoOKed at eACH oTHeR AnD cALLeD EacH OTheR HoME!!!!!!!!!1
> 
> [strums guitar] talk andreil at me @puddingcatbeans on tumblr+twitter


End file.
